haven’t touched anything. That lamp over there was burning.”
“And the one in the bedroom?”
“Must have been, mustn’t it, seeing it’s on now and I didn’t lay a finger on the switch? I don’t know why, but I felt there was something wrong. I put my head through the door and called again. Then I went in, though I wasn’t keen—being very sensitive to bad smells. I peeped into the bedroom and then I saw…
“So I ran down to call the police. There was no one else in the house, except the old gentleman, so I went and told the concierge next door, who’s an old friend of mine; because I didn’t fancy being alone. Some people asked us what was the matter; and there were several of us round the door when the Inspector there turned up.”
“Thank you, Madame—?”
“Aubain.”
“Thank you, Madame Aubain. You may go back to your lodge now. I can hear someone coming upstairs, and I expect it’s the doctor.”
It was not Dr Bloch as yet, but the medical examiner—the same one who had examined Arlette’s body that morning.
As he came through into the bedroom, after shaking hands with Maigret and nodding in a vaguely gracious manner to Lognon, he gave an involuntary exclamation:
“What—again!”
The Countess’s bruised throat showed clearly how she had been killed. And the blue specks on her thighs showed equally clearly that she was hopelessly addicted to drugs. He sniffed one of the syringes and said with a shrug:
“Morphia, of course!”
“Did you know her?”
“Never set eyes on her before. But I know a good few of her sort, in this district. I say—looks as though theft had been the motive, doesn’t it?”
He pointed to the slit in the mattress, where the horsehair was hanging out.
“Was she well off?”
“We don’t know yet,” replied Maigret.
Janvier, who for some minutes had been picking at the lock of a drawer with his penknife, announced at this point:
“This drawer’s full of papers.”
Someone with a young, light step came quickly upstairs and into the room. It was Dr Bloch.
Maigret noticed that the medical examiner greeted the newcomer with no more than a curt nod, pointedly refraining from extending his hand, as he normally would do to a colleague.
FOUR
D r Bloch’s skin was too sallow, his eyes too bright, his hair black and oily. He had apparently not paused on his way to listen to the gossipers in the street or to speak to the concierge. Janvier, on the telephone, had not told him the Countess had been murdered—only that she was dead and that the Inspector wanted to speak to him.
He had rushed upstairs, four steps at a time, and now stood looking uneasily about him. Possibly he had given himself an injection before leaving his surgery. He did not seem surprised at being snubbed by the other doctor, and made no protest. His manner suggested that he was expecting trouble.
Yet the moment he stepped into the bedroom, he showed relief. The Countess had been strangled, so her death was nothing to do with him.
In less than half a minute he had recovered his self-assurance and was even inclined to be bad-tempered and insolent.
“Why did you send for me rather than for some other doctor?” he began, as though feeling his way.
“Because the concierge told us this woman was your patient.”
“I only saw her a few times.”
“What illness were you treating her for?”
Bloch turned towards the other doctor, as though to indicate that he must know perfectly well.
“You’ve surely realized that she was a drug addict? When she’d overdone it she’d have a fit of depression—it’s frequent with such cases—work herself into a panic, and send for me. She was terrified of dying.”
“Have you known her long?”
“It’s only three years since I took over this practice.”
He could hardly be more than thirty years old. Maigret would have been ready to bet that he was a bachelor and had become addicted to morphia as soon as he set up in
“And the one in the bedroom?”
“Must have been, mustn’t it, seeing it’s on now and I didn’t lay a finger on the switch? I don’t know why, but I felt there was something wrong. I put my head through the door and called again. Then I went in, though I wasn’t keen—being very sensitive to bad smells. I peeped into the bedroom and then I saw…
“So I ran down to call the police. There was no one else in the house, except the old gentleman, so I went and told the concierge next door, who’s an old friend of mine; because I didn’t fancy being alone. Some people asked us what was the matter; and there were several of us round the door when the Inspector there turned up.”
“Thank you, Madame—?”
“Aubain.”
“Thank you, Madame Aubain. You may go back to your lodge now. I can hear someone coming upstairs, and I expect it’s the doctor.”
It was not Dr Bloch as yet, but the medical examiner—the same one who had examined Arlette’s body that morning.
As he came through into the bedroom, after shaking hands with Maigret and nodding in a vaguely gracious manner to Lognon, he gave an involuntary exclamation:
“What—again!”
The Countess’s bruised throat showed clearly how she had been killed. And the blue specks on her thighs showed equally clearly that she was hopelessly addicted to drugs. He sniffed one of the syringes and said with a shrug:
“Morphia, of course!”
“Did you know her?”
“Never set eyes on her before. But I know a good few of her sort, in this district. I say—looks as though theft had been the motive, doesn’t it?”
He pointed to the slit in the mattress, where the horsehair was hanging out.
“Was she well off?”
“We don’t know yet,” replied Maigret.
Janvier, who for some minutes had been picking at the lock of a drawer with his penknife, announced at this point:
“This drawer’s full of papers.”
Someone with a young, light step came quickly upstairs and into the room. It was Dr Bloch.
Maigret noticed that the medical examiner greeted the newcomer with no more than a curt nod, pointedly refraining from extending his hand, as he normally would do to a colleague.
FOUR
D r Bloch’s skin was too sallow, his eyes too bright, his hair black and oily. He had apparently not paused on his way to listen to the gossipers in the street or to speak to the concierge. Janvier, on the telephone, had not told him the Countess had been murdered—only that she was dead and that the Inspector wanted to speak to him.
He had rushed upstairs, four steps at a time, and now stood looking uneasily about him. Possibly he had given himself an injection before leaving his surgery. He did not seem surprised at being snubbed by the other doctor, and made no protest. His manner suggested that he was expecting trouble.
Yet the moment he stepped into the bedroom, he showed relief. The Countess had been strangled, so her death was nothing to do with him.
In less than half a minute he had recovered his self-assurance and was even inclined to be bad-tempered and insolent.
“Why did you send for me rather than for some other doctor?” he began, as though feeling his way.
“Because the concierge told us this woman was your patient.”
“I only saw her a few times.”
“What illness were you treating her for?”
Bloch turned towards the other doctor, as though to indicate that he must know perfectly well.
“You’ve surely realized that she was a drug addict? When she’d overdone it she’d have a fit of depression—it’s frequent with such cases—work herself into a panic, and send for me. She was terrified of dying.”
“Have you known her long?”
“It’s only three years since I took over this practice.”
He could hardly be more than thirty years old. Maigret would have been ready to bet that he was a bachelor and had become addicted to morphia as soon as he set up in
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